


Let Me Write You A (Love) Song

by chaoticTransmissions



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Band Fic, Crowley and Gabriel fight in a parking lot, Fluff, Gay Panic, M/M, Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 12:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20435819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticTransmissions/pseuds/chaoticTransmissions
Summary: In which Crowley is the lead singer for The Fallen: a punk-rock band trying to make it big at the Clash of the Bands competition and Aziraphale is the new lead singer for his sworn enemy.(AKA, The Band!AU that no one asked of)





	Let Me Write You A (Love) Song

When Crowley finally stumbled into the green room it was nearly ten-thirty and Ligur was already on his feet and yelling. “We’re on in ten you asshole! Where were you?” 

“Catching up with an old friend,” Crowley drawled, then spit blood onto the carpet. 

Ligur’s ranting went up a whole octave after that, his eyes shifting like fire in the fluorescence. Hastur stood behind him, scowling. It was hard to see either one of them through the haze of cigarette smoke clouding the air. 

“You look like shit,” commented Beezlebub. They were the only one in the room still sitting, too focused on heavily applying their eyeliner to care about Crowley’s split lip and scuffed knuckles. “There’s blood on your collar.”

Crowley peered beneath the sunnies that were perpetually glued to his face. Sure enough, there was a splatter of crimson at his throat. He shrugged, tugging on the hem of his black duster. “Goes with the look, doesn’t it? Or did we suddenly switch to performing Christian Rock?”

Hastur’s scowl deepened. “Don’t say that word. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.” 

“What, ‘rock’?” Crowley played dumb, snatching the cigarette out of Ligur’s hand and taking a puff. “I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of it, given how poorly you handled that drum solo last performance.”

Hastur opened his mouth to retort, but the green room door swung suddenly open, interrupting their bickering. Heeled boots strode across the whiskey stained floor and a delicate, ring-laden hand grasped Crowley’s chin. 

“What happened to you?” Asked Anathema Device, her eyes squinting disapprovingly behind the round frames of her glasses.

“Uh, well--” Crowly shrugged. “You know.” Anathema shook her head and shoved an ice pack at him. It was one of her homemade ones, filled with all kinds of healing herbs and flowers and who knew what. 

“Let me guess, it’s the same ‘you know’ that happened to Gabriel in the cub parking lot fifteen minutes ago? I just saw him and his black eye upstairs.” Anathema, with her lace dresses and perfect posture, looked like the last person who would be hanging around a club with a punk rock band. 

Of course, as their manager, she was expected to attend their performances. 

“You got into a fight with Gabriel? As in Seraphim’s Gabriel?” Ligur snapped. “Are you batshit? The tristate Clash of the Bands competition is in two weeks. Gabriel reports you for assault and we’re all disqualified”

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. Anathema noticed the cuts on his knuckles and sighed. “Those fingers will be stiffer than granite in a few minutes. You’re lucky Beez is our guitarist and not you.” 

Anathema was the only one who could call Beezlebub “Beez” and get away with it.

“We’re not going to get disqualified,” Crowley promised. “That smug douchebag is too prideful to ever admit that I dusted him in a club parking lot.” 

Gabriel was the drummer for Seraphim, an alternative band that played many of the same venues that Crowley’s band, The Fallen, did. Gabriel and Crowley had never gotten along. 

Gabriel didn’t like Crowley because Crowley resented everything Gabriel hated: chaos, anarchy, and hedonism. Crowley didn’t like Gabriel because, well, Gabriel was a walking enema. 

Anathema and her lovesick puppy of a boyfriend, Newton, had been trying to get Crowley to ignore Gabriel. But it was difficult when Seraphim was at most of their performances and Gabriel’s every action seemed designed to piss Crowley off. 

Crowley hadn’t meant to punch Gabriel in the throat when he went out for a smoke half an hour ago. It just sort of happened that way.

“You better be right about Gabriel,” Hastur growled. “Clash of the Bands offers five-thousand quid worth of reward money for first place. Not to mention that it’s our chance to finally go big time.”

Beezlebub’s makeup seemed to be finally finished and they stood without flourish. There was a fly clinging to their shoulder, but they didn’t seem to notice or care. “We should go. Call time’s in five.”

Anathema nodded, surveying the clipboard she kept with her religiously. “Quite right, Beez. All of you too the stage, now. Crowley, keep the ice on your lip until the strobe lights hit you. Ligur, your face is going to get stuck like that if you aren’t careful.”

Already Crowley could hear the thrum of EDM music and the pounding of feet on the dance floor below them. Hastur was right about one thing: it would be nice to perform somewhere a bit ritzier. Somewhere where the green room wasn’t a storage closet in the basement right next to the boiler. 

“Nath.” Crowley nudged his manager slyly as they climbed the stairs toward their next performance. Aside from the usual Saturday night rave crowd, they had amassed a decent following of groupies who Crowley expected to make an appearance “Do the rumors that Seraphim has a new lead singer hold any water?”

Anathema smiled in the brilliant, almost terrifying way of hers. “Doesn’t look like they’re sinking to me.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “What happened to Metatron?”

Anathema rolled her eyes. They were on the main floor of the club now and she had to shout to be heard over the music. “He decided music wasn’t for him and went back to day job. I’ve heard interesting things about his replacement.”

“Interesting? Interesting how?” They were nearly to the stage, the crowd parting eagerly for them as they realized who moved among them. 

Anathema only smiled mysteriously. “Break a leg, as they say.”

Crowley was admittedly curious, but he forgot all about it with the first riff of the guitar. As the amps leapt to life and the dance music coming through the speakers fell silent in The Fallen’s wake, Crowley pressed his lips to the microphone and began to sing. 

\---

After the show, Crowley climbed off the stage and headed straight for the bar. He was eager for a drink to calm his adrenaline, then it was straight home to tend to his plants and avoid the incoming groupie storm. Anathema and the others had disappeared into the chaos of the club.

As the bartender poured him a glass of whiskey, (Crowley was in no mood to nurse a glass of wine tonight), the sound of another band setting up on stage drew his attention. There was Michael, Gabriel, and Uriel up to their usual business. 

And standing in the middle of the stage under the golden halo of a stage light, was the most beautiful man Crowley had ever seen. White-gold curls surrounded a gentle face. A pleasantly rounded frame and skin that looked smooth as silk. Eyes that just about knocked Crowley over.

All in all, not the sort of man who would ever stoop to converse with Crowley. There was no point in talking to him, even. Not to mention that Crowley had just beaten up his bandmate. 

Crowley would just have to resign himself to admiring this marvel from afar.

At least, that was the plan until the blonde began to sing. 

And his voice…

Crowley found himself pushing through the crowds before he could stop himself, stopping just below the stage. He didn’t look to see if Gabriel noticed or cared that he was there. He only had eyes for the golden siren whose song had ensnared him. 

When the band’s set was over, Crowley headed for the door feeling hungover in a way that wasn’t from the alcohol, only to find Seraphin’s newest member blocking his path.

Crowley watched the other man approach as if in a trance. The blonde reached into the pocket of his cream suit and produced a hand embroidered handkerchief. He pressed it to Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley died a soft death. 

“You had a bit of dried blood on your lip.” The man’s smile rose like the sun between them. “I saw your set earlier. Quite lively stuff.”

“Uh, yes, I’m…” Crowley struggled to remember his own name. “Crowley. Like the bird.” Like the bird? He could have shot himself. 

The blonde man only smiled, awakening a fire in Crowley that he had never known was dormant.

“Pleasure to meet you, Crowley. I’m Aziraphale.” 


End file.
